It’s
sketched on a napkin, a series of styles, lying to a soul;
for
she holds a secret, to perish pains, boldly curious. I
take
a hand, to pledge a stranger, standing at a distance. This
is
passion, ever tugged, adrift a torn direction. Once so
tropic,
a pier of colors, chiseled on an oak tree. Such
fever,
hours to exhaust, ignoring rumors. What agenda, to
map
a future, without consent? It’s sacral in rain, a christic
design,
a Father’s rough draft. I’m cold with feelings, yearning
for
inclusion; something cryptic, a Delphic sign, gazing at a
millpond.
There you stand, a riddle written, a poet’s novel.
I
peer a façade, to search veneer, an elegant gem. Your scent,
ever
sophisticated, draped in powder blue. I stand addled,
probing
a cave, to drift a portal. You live a crest, the highest
peak,
dearly separated. I discern little, for little is given, a
shell
of insecurities. But deep a dell, near a myrtle, a woman
yearns.
I try for tour, to grip a fern, absorbed in charms. You
wild
a fire, to open doors, ravished, but distant. This is life, to
mate
a stranger, ever aloof.
